


Gone Phishing

by sexonastick



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Surly Teenagers, Your Permanent Record (DUH DUH DUH)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexonastick/pseuds/sexonastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is a good girl, top of her class, who always obeys the rules and does what's right. </p>
<p>Unfortunately this time the two might not go exactly hand-in-hand and she may have to bend -- but never quite break! -- a few rules in order to help out a friend. (When you think of it that way, it's a very good thing that Skye seems so bendable.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lescousinsdangereux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/gifts).



> Use of _Masterfade_ ripped off directly from [Cuz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux). 
> 
> In addition to lyrical inspiration (and nudging me to watch the show to begin with), she's let me bounce ideas off her the entire time I've been writing this, so most of the good stuff probably comes from her.

*

        Well you sure didn't look like you were having any fun  
        With that heavy-metal gaze they'll have to measure in tons  
        And when you look up at the sky  
        All you see are zeros  
        And all you see are zeros and ones -  Andrew Bird, _Masterfade_

*

Her name is Skye Bennet, at least that's what she's calling herself this year.

People might not always credit Jemma Simmons with remembering details that aren't part of an equation or on the periodic table of elements -- mainly she might be accused of overlooking specifically human details directly linked with social interactions -- but she could have _sworn_ that Skye had a different surname when she transferred in last year. But since "Bennet" is what it says in the official school registry, that's what all the teachers insist on calling her.

Even though Skye herself seldom seems to remember that she's meant to answer to it, looking up several seconds too slow for it to be the sort of name she's been responding to her entire life. Highly suspicious.

If anything, this points to those abilities that Skye is rumored to possess being distinctly more than just a myth. That, at least, is good news.

The first good news, in fact, since Jemma's best friend, Leo Fitz, began to worry that he wouldn't be accepted into MIT with his record as it stands now. The idea occurred to him in late June when they began the application process -- the actual writing and updating of their applications, that is, since they'd both settled on their schools of choice in fourth grade -- and he hadn't let up about it since.

As if it was somehow Jemma's fault that Fitz had caught fire to their biology lab in the ninth grade. Not that it was really his fault either! Biology isn't even his area of expertise, and he had only been curious. Most members of the school board had agreed that such ambition in a young mind was admirable, and should not be discouraged. His punishment had only been community service instead of suspension from school. 

But the incident was still on Leo's permanent record. 

While many students seem to think such a thing is a myth, or at least unworthy of concern, it certainly does exist. In fact, Jemma had _seen_ Leo's file while she volunteered in the vice principal's office after hours, stapling flyers and copying papers.

Sneaking a peek at the records the school has on Leo had been Jemma's very first instance of rule breaking since she got caught stealing an ice cream bar before dinner at age twelve. It didn't feel good, and the sinking sensation when she saw the giant red writing all over the page from that catastrophic event three years ago had only made matters worse.

Leo might be the panicky type of person who is prone to exaggeration, but he apparently wasn't wrong about this. 

MIT definitely might be averse to the sort of prospective student who could cost an institution seven thousand one hundred and thirteen dollars and twenty-one cents -- all underlined and circled twice -- and if the two of them were going to grow up to be the accomplished geniuses they were obviously meant to be (together), then she was going to have to do something about this.

She was going to have to break more rules. 

* 

Of course, there's nothing to say that Jemma had to _start_ by breaking rules -- not counting, of course, the two she'd already broken by first looking at Leo's file and then making a photocopy of it, just in case -- because as far as she could tell, Skye Bennet always hangs around the picnic tables in the quad long after school is over. No cutting classes required.

Though she couldn't say _why_ exactly someone who doesn't seem particularly interested in her academic advancement would spend so much time on campus after the school day has ended. It's something Jemma has never really considered before. She doesn't make a habit of questioning the behavior patterns of her fellow students, let alone the especially aggressive and non-intellectual types who look like they might drink alcohol illegally and drive donuts in their car on the weekend for stimulation. Skye herself hangs around with quite a few of those, though none of them are accompanying her this afternoon.

That's another thing going in Jemma's favor, as she obviously wouldn't be equipped (in the slightest) to defend herself if things went suddenly south. The best she could do is give someone a good whacking with her backpack, and that would most likely damage the books more than anything else.

Perhaps pull out her shoulder.

"Hello!" Jemma says far too brightly, quite certain that she must sound like a small child dizzy on lemonade and overly sugared cupcakes. "… hi."

As though repetition is especially helpful. (Though it does sometimes jog Leo's mind, Simmons has found it serves her best to assume that _no one else_ in life functions in the same way as Leopold Fitz.)

Skye looks up at her with that slightly perturbed and suspicious expression the younger woman is _always_ wearing. Her eyes flick up and down, as though she's making some kind of assessment. "What? You need me to--" But her eyes narrow, apparently settling on _something_ or reaching a decisive conclusion. "No. You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't?" Jemma couldn't say why she feels so indignant at the response when she isn't even sure what she's just been ruled out of. 

But still!

Skye hardly knows her at all. Who's to say Jemma might not want to be (or perhaps already is) _whatever_ little-miss-sour-face is so certain she would have no part in? She might! 

"… I might."

" _You_ might need me to hack into the school system to change your grades?" She doesn't really say it as though it's a question, and the only word that comes to mind to describe the accompanying expression is a smirk.

Jemma's cheeks flush. "Oh. No, I don't need that."

"Yeah." Skye says, still smirking. "You don't."

Jemma grips her hands behind her back, as if firming up her emotional resolve could run hand-in-hand (so to speak) with such physical gestures. (There is evidence to suggest, of course, that mental state is highly reliant upon several outside factors including physical comfort or lack thereof, and perfect posture _has_ always helped bring a certain calmness and clarity that she can appreciate.) "Nothing needs to be changed," she says slowly, wishing that she might have had more practice with smirks herself. It would be really good to deliver her follow up with enough smugness to match Skye's own. "But I may need something… expunged." 

For several moments, Skye just looks at her -- apparently the words didn't have _nearly_ the impact Jemma had hoped for -- and then her smirk amps up. 

(She is _really_ good at this.) 

"Okay. So, let's expunge."

* 

The truth is that Jemma hadn't expected things to go this easily or, by extension, to escalate this quickly. 

She had expected to approach Skye when she was surrounded by her compatriots of equally questionable morals and to be forced to communicate in some kind of code. Perhaps they would exchange several text messages before coming to some kind of agreement.

What she had _not_ anticipated was following Skye Bennet -- though that is likely not her _real_ name -- into an abandoned field only a few hours before sundown. Soon Jemma's parents would be wondering where she was. She's a responsible girl who always keeps curfew, and usually calls when she's going to be staying out after dark.

But she's not sure if Skye would approve of phone calls, or any other sudden movements really. She seems like she might be jumpy. (Most criminal types do. Perhaps that's a sign of a guilty conscience, or maybe a highly evolved self-defense mechanism preparing them for a future of running from police officers.) Not that Skye strikes Jemma as the type of person to commit any major felonies.

Though hacking _is_ of course a criminal offense and in many ways a form of disruptive behavior that might suggest poor socialization and limited people skills.

Maybe the kind of poorly socialized person who would lead a trusting -- some might say _naive_ \-- fellow student into the middle of a field to rob her of her lunch money or whatever it is people steal these days, her smart phone then, and so it's only with a _slightly_ worried lift in her voice that Jemma suddenly bursts out, "I don't have any money."

Skye stops walking and turns to look at her, blinking. Her hands are in her jacket pockets, and for one ludicrous moment Jemma wonders if she might be concealing a weapon of some kind. (Absurd. She obviously wouldn't fit any kind of handgun in there and a blade would perforate the material. The only possibility would be a pocket knife, and Jemma's quite sure she could run away before the blade was fully engaged.)

"Yeah, okay," Skye says, speaking slowly. "So what?" 

Her hands are still in her pockets, but that might just be a result of the cold weather. 

Come to think of it, Jemma is feeling a bit chilly herself. If she'd known she was going to be staying after late today, she would have packed a scarf in her bag, which she hoists higher up on her shoulder now for the added contact and warmth. "Well, I just mean that if you're expecting me to pay you today, it'll have to wait…"

That sounds like a reasonable excuse that doesn't involve accusing her would-be cohort in (slightly) illegal activities of doing anything that might make her angry. (Accusations like robbery or blackmail.)

Though Jemma supposes one could always obtain the evidence required for blackmail with a simple (hidden) recording device of some kind. Payment would be demanded later, only after the damning evidence -- or unwitting confession -- is obtained, and it would surely ruin her attempts to get into Harvard if she was found tampering with another student's permanent records.

Hell.

"Look, Skye," she finds herself suddenly almost stammering -- just as Skye had resumed walking too -- and the look the other woman sends her is such a strange mixture of amusement and annoyance that Jemma feels her cheeks flush. "I don't mean to be a bother, of course, but… maybe this isn't a very good idea."

"You haven't even told me what your bad idea _is_."

"… I know. And perhaps it's best that it remains that way." She worries her lower lip and tries to imagine what a woman like Skye might be thinking just now. That almost incomprehensible combination of two such conflicting emotions on her face certainly isn't making it any easier for Jemma to decipher her. "Don't you think?"

Skye laughs, but it isn't a cruel sound. It's light and sort of teasing, like an old friend -- the kind of laugh Fitz usually reserves for when he's about to bring up some story from when they were both quite young and prone to silly mistakes. It's this sort of laugh that Skye sends back over her shoulder as she continues walking further out into the middle of a seemingly _endless_ field.

(Ridiculous exaggeration, of course. But in the moment it certainly feels as though it might go on forever. She did not wear the proper footwear for this much walking across uneven terrain.)

"I think," Skye says, still chuckling. "We should talk more once we get there."

"And uh…" She shifts her bag on her shoulder, adjusting the weight to carry it more easily while still walking. "Where are we _going_ exactly?" 

Another laugh, and Skye points. 

With all the grass growing up the side of it, Jemma hadn't noticed at first, but of course now she sees it.

The field isn't empty -- or, obviously, endless -- at all. There, standing roughly twenty-four feet away from where they are now is a giant, well rusted van.

"My second home," Skye says and for a brief moment Jemma wonders if it means anything that, this time, there's not a trace of laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

*

Simmons, Jemma.

Really high GPA and apparently a Virgo, not that Skye really buys into any of that stuff. Still it's basically all there, readily available on the web, and it's pretty easy to access once they're seated in the back of Skye's van. 

(Okay, technically not actually _Skye's_ van in that money never exchanged hands or whatever, but since there are seriously a lot of weeds growing up and around the back right tire, she's pretty sure nobody else is going to be using it any time soon.) 

Anyway.

"So what exactly are we _expunging_?" Skye thinks she probably shouldn't enjoy the way that word feels on her tongue quite as much as she does, but like. Just try it. Expunge.

It's like a trampoline inside your mouth. 

So she grins a little, and then Simmons mirrors it. Slightly. With way more twitching and nervous little hand movements. "We are… actually, this is what I wasn't sure we should discuss."

"Because you're a good girl and this is strictly bad girl stuff, am I right?"

Oh god, and apparently she's way _too_ right, because it would seem the Simmons kid -- who, okay, is admittedly a year and a half older than Skye herself, but still very much a _kid_ \-- is blushing now, and… god.

She's sort of cute.

In an agitated bunny kind of a way.

"Well, yes, I suppose I am normally a good girl who isn't used to these kinds of shenanigans." 

"Then I guess you shouldn't have followed me out to my shenanivan." Skye actually kind of chokes a little laughing at her own joke. 

But for some reason, Simmons just doesn't join in. 

Must be too much of an uber dork to enjoy humor. Okay, noted. 

"Um." Skye tries to smile in a _friendly_ way to put the other girl at ease. She might not have money on her now, after all, but presumably she'll have some eventually, and you should always smile at a potentially paying customer. "Anyway, the point is that your secrets are safe with me. And since I'm honestly really good at what I do, your secrets are kind of _only_ safe with me, you know? I could basically find all of them out already." She's not sure if this is actually the most reassuring approach possible, come to think of it, but she's already committed to the tactic.

Better to just go all in. 

"So you might as well spill your guts, Simmons." 

Even if the kid is still sort of blinking at Skye owlishly, looking more than a little overwhelmed. "Yes, well… okay. That's fine, I guess." She also keeps rubbing her palms against her pants leg like she's trying to rid them of whatever germs she might have picked up inside the shenanivan -- which, hey, _offensive_ , but Skye lets it slide (this time) -- and occasionally picking at the stitching on the seam close to her knee. Nervous habit, apparently. "The problem isn't really mine, exactly. It's my friend, Fitz."

"Oh, right! Your boyfriend, Donatello." There Skye goes laughing at her own joke again, and this time Simmons looks even _more_ clueless -- like that should even be possible -- and also, kind of like she's grossed out. (But that admittedly might still be the van's fault.) "… kidding, sorry. Just a turtle reference."

"… turtles?" 

"Who are ninjas, yep. Carry on."

Simmons takes a moment to recompose herself, during which she even adjusts her tie -- she _wears a tie_ to school, my god -- before fixing a (totally nervous) smile in place and trying again. "The point is that years ago Fitz had a minor difficulty that's still present on his permanent record." 

The gravity with which she says _permanent record_ is almost enough to make Skye snicker, and she's pretty sure the only thing that keeps her from smirking is the fact that Simmons seriously looks a little bit ill. 

In fact, she's almost _pale_ , her voice rising and falling rapidly. "Well, you could say it was somewhat serious at the time, but in retrospect it's almost funny. Really."

She pauses long enough that Skye feels compelled to prompt her again. "Okay then, consider me primed for laughter."

Even if Simmons' own chuckle is really ( _really_ ) nervous. "Quite, yes, well. In our freshman year, Fitz had a minor issue -- well, when I say _minor_ , I clearly mean more in terms of actual negative ramifications to the greater whole rather than--"

"He didn't kill anybody, right?"

"Goodness, no!" 

"No major drug charges or felonies?" 

"He burnt down the science lab," Simmons says all at once, the words tumbling out in a flurry of exasperation that almost makes Skye want to laugh.

Almost.

"Oh, okay." She grins instead. "Mad scientist run amuck. Gotcha."

"Fitz is _not_ \--"

"Do you do coffee?"

"… pardon?"

"Coffee. Do you drink it or do you disapprove of the chemical impact on your body or whatever?"

For a split second, the look on Jemma Simmons' incredibly proper face is _almost_ condescending, until she quickly replaces it with something more contrite. "Yes, of _course_ I drink coffee."

"Good." Skye jumps out of the van abruptly, not bothering to hide her chuckle as Simmons stumbles to quickly move out of her way. No touchy. "My laptop's battery is almost dead, so… coffee?"

But the baby geek looks so put out by the idea that Skye kind of feels offended. "Aren't we done? For today, at least."

"We can be, yeah. If you've got somewhere else to be."

"I do, actually," Simmons says with the rushed urgency of the type of person who almost never has other plans apart from homework or like possibly helping little old ladies across the street.

"... yeah."

"Perhaps another time!"

Simmons is walking away so quickly now -- nearly double timing it -- that Skye can't help but wonder what would happen if she didn't call after her, shouting, "The road is the other direction."

Pause.

Nine seconds pass before Simmons does a complete about face, marching back in the other direction. "Yes, of course. I knew that..."

"Of course."

"And by the way, Leopold Fitz is _not_ my boyfriend," Simmons adds abruptly on her way (stomping) past, as if it's a point very much worth making. 

Which. Duly noted.

*  
So apparently in between _actually being in chess club_ and founding the school's science club -- along with her not-boyfriend -- Simmons spends enough time actively involved with charities to show up a lot on google.

A quote about a bake sale here, a photo with underprivileged children there -- which is deeply disturbing, come to think of it, because give them a few more years age difference and the kid with Simmons' kind of boney arm around her shoulder could be Skye -- and if you add it all up, it sort of makes sense that Skye hasn't seen Jemma Simmons at _any_ parties.

Like, ever.

She must be way too busy volunteering with disabled kittens or whatever. 

Not that Skye is exactly some kind of social butterfly, but she manages. She mingles. She, at least, has more than one friend, which keeps her from being mistaken for their _girlfriend_. (If someone called her Bucky's girlfriend, for instance, she'd probably want to puke. He doesn't even wash his hair more than like twice a week. Skye has standards!) But yeah, Simmons only has the one, as far as she can tell.

Not that she has been paying _a lot_ of attention, because that'd be really weird. But it's a small school, and you pick up on things.

Plus, as stated: the dork's entire social life appears to be catalogued online in extracurriculars. Just the sort of well rounded activities that get you into Harvard or Yale or somewhere else where they do rowing. And have yachts.

Skye has never been on a yacht. Or… near one.

She saw one from a distance once. It seemed sort of dumb and pointless, like a lot of things other people prioritize. 

Like college. Mostly dumb, mostly pointless. It's for people who don't already have any goals, or who have been dumb enough to make their goals something that _requires_ a college education. (Simmons strikes her as precisely that sort of dummy.) For Skye, most of the skills she's going to require for her chosen career path -- if you can really call it that -- are available through trial and error, plus a dedication to spending too much time at a keyboard. 

It also helps to have a high tolerance for the kind of gross shit you can stumble across on certain corners of the internet. 

* 

Cleaning out the not-boyfriend's file takes like sixteen minutes total, and that's including the time it took getting onto the school's server.

(Which is actually close to failing if the repetitive read/write errors are any indication. She spends some time considering whether or not they're likely to have a mirrored partition already in place or if tipping it over the edge would be worth the effort of enlisting a couple late night script kiddies in a brief all out assault. The fact that Simmons would probably _assume_ it's some kind of malice on Skye's part -- instead of just speeding up the inevitable -- is the only thing that really keeps the curiosity in check.)

The FTP is barely secured. Maybe they forgot to update _any_ protocols when the entire school staff switched over to Dropbox (you know, the super safe _Cloud_ ), but whatever. Makes her life easier. 

The most time consuming part is covering her tracks on her way back out, but only after a brief stop to backup every single file on Jemma Simmons to a flash drive.

Curiosity is only in check. Not like… erased or something.


	3. Chapter 3

*

Fourth period English is probably Jemma's least favorite subject. She already _speaks_ English, obviously -- the Queen's English, in fact -- _and_ she's an avid reader, without any prompting from a teacher required.

While Hamlet might be considered a challenge for a number of her peers, Jemma practically devoured it nearly ten years ago. Ophelia isn't exactly a perfect role model, but to a seven-year-old Jemma she had at least seemed admirable for her conviction. 

Now she's just a source of constant debate and confusion amongst classmates. Jemma hates to deride others for their mental shortcomings -- everyone has an area of expertise, after all, and there are certainly topics she doesn't entirely excel at -- but if one more young man suggests that, perhaps, all Ophelia needed was to get laid, she might scream.

"Miss Simmons." 

So intent is Jemma's focus on pretending to be involved with the reading that she hadn't noticed someone slip in through the door to hand over a slip of paper to her teacher. 

No, not just any _someone_. Skye.

Who is now _winking_ at her while Ms. Hand examines the slip of paper more carefully. Subtlety apparently isn't an area Skye excels in. "It seems you're wanted in the vice principal's office…" The pause is ominous enough, Jemma feels all the muscles along her back go stiff. "For the rest of the period."

Well. 

There certainly ought to be a perfectly valid -- and not at all worrying -- reason for that, even if none spring to mind immediately.

* 

"Why the long face, Sims?" 

"That isn't my name," Jemma says, sulking more than she'd like, "And my face is exactly as it's always been. Do you know what Mr. Coulson wants?"

But Skye just laughs.

 _Oh_ , of course. 

"What?" She laughs again, because apparently education is nothing more than a _joke_ to someone like her. "Like you were enjoying professor Hand Job's class that much?"

Jemma is momentarily flabbergasted which, judging by the look on her face, was entirely Skye's intention. "She is _not_ a professor, for one thing, which I'm sure you already know, and secondly--" She feels her mouth flap open and shut, nearly at a loss for words. "That is _not_ a nice thing to say about anyone, however much I might dislike them."

"Ah-ha!" 

The look of triumph on Skye's face is almost insufferable. 

"Do not… _ah-ha_ me." 

"It's okay, Simmons." Gradually, the smugness starts to dissipate and Skye becomes nearly tolerable. Nearly. "There's no rule that says you have to like _everyone_. You're still a good girl."

"Yes, I know," Jemma chimes in, not missing a beat. "One of the best."

The quick double-take from Skye, followed by her barking laughter is worth it. 

It's always nice to catch someone by surprise.

* 

Once again, Skye leads her off to some abandoned dark place -- an empty classroom on the upper floor -- and for whatever reason, Jemma follows without hesitation. 

She really ought to reconsider how trusting she is, as this could easily become a dangerous pattern. At the very least, she tries not to seem _too_ patient as that's just the sort of thing that leads to one being taken advantage of on a more regular basis. "Alright, so what do you want?"

"Well, payment would be nice for one thing, just saying, but what I want right now is to give you an update." Skye flashes her a toothy smile. It's just the kind she probably uses when she's caught sneaking out after dark. That is, assuming she has anyone in her life who cares to assign a curfew.

People who behave like Skye seldom seem to. 

"Right, so update me."

Skye hooks her ankle around a chair and pulls it closer before sitting, elbows akimbo on the desk. "Well, I expunged." Now the grin is bigger, more genuine, but with just as many teeth. "It was kind of easy. The school should really consider hiring a white hat to, you know, update their systems enough to not totally suck."

"Someone like you, I suppose."

"Well, I'm open to it."

And she laughs. 

She has a nice laugh. Pleasant sounding and warm, quite unlike her sharper smirks and smiles or the suspicious look she often carries in her eyes. Jemma thinks for just a moment that she would be a good sort of person to know as a friend. 

"So," she says, trying to get them both back on track. "Payment."

But Skye's response is hasty and a little stilted. "Actually, you shouldn't. We're… not done yet."

Well, that's news. 

(And somehow what sticks out the most in that sentence is a very dubious _we_.) 

"Oh?"

"There are still the hard copies on file, right?" Skye shrugs in a way that's sort of boneless and distracting. "At least one, since you saw it."

"… yes."

"We have to get that first. Then we're done."

There's that _we_ again. "And how do you propose--"

"You work in the office, right?"

Visions of rejection letters suddenly dance in Jemma's head. " _No_."

"Well, you _do_ , I'm pretty sure, but I see you're at least one step ahead of--"

"Skye, _no_."

"I'm not asking you to rob a bank, Simmons."

"You might as well!" 

"I'll create a distraction," Skye says with a quiet slyness that immediately causes Jemma even greater concern.

"What _kind_ of distraction?" 

She's certain she must sound exactly like the sort of spoil sport with a stick up her bum that she's often been accused of, but since it is _her_ entire academic future riding on the line as well now, the concern seems warranted.

"The pool on the roof is going to spring a leak," Skye continues with the sort of self-satisfied smile Jemma has noticed she reserves for making references that she apparently thinks are especially clever. 

Jemma herself hasn't understood a single one so far. "But there isn't a--"

"Oh my god, _I know_ , never mind." There's an almost affectionate twist to the way Skye grins at her now, and it makes her nearly seem tender, despite the ominous lighting of the abandoned classroom. (Again, the other girl's uncanny sense for mischief should probably be cause for concern.) "I'll handle it, okay? Trust me."

Jemma wants to object. After all, how can she possibly be expected to _trust_ someone she barely even knows, particularly when they first made contact because of completely illegal -- and questionably immoral -- activities?

And yet, what she finds herself saying is, "Alright, if you promise."

"I promise."

*

It feels awful lying to Vice Principal Coulson.

Jemma dislikes lying in general, simply on principle, but it feels especially egregious when the one being deceived has always been so attentive and supportive. In fact, he argued passionately on Fitz's behalf when the ninth grade incident in question first occurred. As far as Jemma could tell at the time, Mr. Coulson's unwavering support was a major factor in convincing several of his colleagues to be lenient. 

Just last spring, he took the initiative to approach Jemma regarding her early college applications and whether or not she would require a letter of recommendation. She's seen him go out of his way to listen to students in need, even long after normal school hours have ended.

Inspirational is one word that comes to mind, and though his unwavering trust in his student body might sometimes seem a tad naive, he demonstrates the sort of loyalty that is always admirable in any person -- and sorely lacking in far too many adults, in Jemma's estimation.

"Miss Simmons," Mr. Coulson says with just a hint of impatience that suggests he may have already been repeating her name several times.

She probably doesn't help matters by appearing quite startled. "Yes. Sorry, what was the question?"

Jemma tries smiling. There's nothing inherently suspicious about smiling -- except when it's both thin and yet somehow shows too many teeth at the same time, nearly defying all laws of basic biology, which she might just be doing now (unfortunately) -- and the whole _point_ is to simply blend in until Skye's distraction involving a fictitious pool does… whatever it is she's planning to do.

"No question. You just look distracted."

"Do I?" Skye had told her before they parted ways this morning after a brief interlude in the parking lot -- apparently making the rounds along a bullet point list of all possible locations where a drug deal or murder would be likely to take place in their town -- that the only thing Jemma has to do is keep calm, and to say as little as possible. "Well, I'm just rehearsing. Sir."

She remembers the conversation clearly, since it runs directly counter to every erratic anxious impulse firing in her brain right now. 

It would seem that one of them is a much more skilled liar than the other, and it's clearly an easy guess as to who. (Perhaps another cause for concern at some later date when she doesn't have more immediately pressing problems creating an internal panic.)

"Rehearsal? For what?" Mr. Coulson's smile is so genuinely curious -- so kind and considerate -- that it nearly breaks her heart. 

That is, until she thinks of Fitz toiling away in whatever lowly community college would be willing to have him. Cast off from all of academic society, with every research paper rejected from any reputable journal. 

Then she feels a stonier sense of resolve pass through her. "Why, for the school play. I am auditioning for Ophelia, from Hamlet, perhaps you've heard of it."

Coulson blinks at her several times, and maybe he would have said more -- such as that, as an educator, he has obviously heard of Hamlet, or that he's not even certain the school is performing it this year which, to be honest, would be fair enough since Jemma isn't entirely sure they're performing any play whatsoever this fall -- but suddenly there's screaming in the hallway.

Screaming and an utter downpour of water as the sprinklers all turn on at once.

Pool on the roof, apparently. 

"What in god's name," she thinks she hears him mutter under his breath as he darts out into the hall, grabbing a copy of the school newspaper along the way to cover his head. "Everybody back inside their classrooms, now!"

Now's her chance.

(Though it does occur to her, briefly, that perhaps this could have all been solved more swiftly and efficiently by having Skye simply turn on the sprinklers solely in the room where the paper copies of files are stored. Though perhaps she only wishes to vandalize property she is specifically paid to destroy.) 

Such as personal records from a student's ninth grade year, crumpled quickly into a ball and shoved in Jemma's pocket. 

Out in the hall one student has slipped into a sprawling pile on his back and he seems intent on taking everyone else who passes by down along with him. "Help," he shouts, pulling on another student's trouser leg as he's nearly dragged along the floor. "Is this a fire? We're all going to die!" 

Yes. Mr. Coulson _clearly_ thinks far too highly of his students.

The man is nearly a saint.


	4. Chapter 4

*

Bucky is basically a giant baby in steel-toed boots, but he's helped a lot with van renovations, primarily by installing insulation -- plus finding the bean bag, which is a keeper -- so Skye feels a certain obligation to help him out occasionally.

Like since the only place where age and wisdom really seem to operate on an inverse is technology, Bucky's two years of seniority have placed him at the sort of disadvantage where he doesn't appear to understand internet culture.

Or apparently, keyboards.

"… this is seriously taking forever."

"Maybe it wouldn't if you didn't keep trying to read over my shoulder," he says, totally pissy. "I can't concentrate with you _breathing_ on me."

"Apologies for breathing, but you type like someone's one-handed grandmother."

Bucky sneers. "I do my best work one-handed." 

"… gross," and the full body shudder isn't even faked. "I hope you _washed your hands_ before creeping on my keyboard, then."

"I asked first."

Which he did, not that Skye would have the heart to say no. Not yet, at least. It does sort of feel like eventual rejection is what Bucky's working toward, though, since he's started _borrowing_ her laptop on an almost weekly basis now, and it seriously does take hours every time.

Hours! For a single email. 

He's practically the punchline for a joke that barely even makes sense, but ever since he and this Steve guy were (tentatively) reunited online -- all thanks to Skye's efforts, it should be noted -- Bucky's been working actively on his communication skills. 

Only communication in written form, that is. Aloud he still just sort of grunts every time Skye pokes him in the shoulder. "Come on. Hurry." 

Grunt grunt, in perfect staccato with his stilted ( _slow_ ) keystrokes. "Finding the right words takes time… You know, for those of us who sometimes pause for air." She'd probably want to hit him if the quick smile he shoots her way wasn't so charming. He's so damn _charming_ when he's not being a raging asshole.

It's the reason Skye had found it so easy to actually want to help him, when that kind of vulnerability usually seems like a dangerous liability. Help someone too often for free and they'll start to think you care. (Or worse yet, they'll be right.) Caring is dangerous, since it almost inevitably leads to disappointment. 

Most teenagers, disappointment is something like they didn't get the car they wanted or some girl said no about that date on Friday night.

Skye's experience with disappointment has run more toward total abandonment, so forgive her for being slightly gun-shy. 

But Bucky's won her over, probably because he seldom seems to try to. He's just _nice_ , with no apparent expectation that you'll give a damn. Since they're both teenagers nudging right up against that line of adulthood who have spent most of their lives in foster care, he can probably relate to most of her reservations. He doesn't push, and she appreciates that.

That's why this friendship with Steve -- though Skye might go so far as to call it an _obsession_ , especially if Bucky is close enough to overhear and be annoyed -- is so significant. 

They met in some kind of program where above average over-achievers hang around with at risk youth. You know, like foster kids or Justin Bieber fans.

Most of the time, it's just an obligation you fulfill to get a counselor off your back -- or because, like Bucky, you're required to participate to avoid being charged with vandalism -- and that hour or so of the first meeting is all it will amount to. But according to Bucky, he and Steve hit it off right away. They became fast friends who hung around together until Bucky was relocated to another foster home and… somehow totally fell out of touch.

It's almost dumb and hard to believe, but she's spent just enough time in Bucky's presence to buy it. 

He is _really_ bad at texting. It sort of baffles him, and he seems to get bored about two messages in. He'd rather charm you face-to-face.

Or write painstakingly slow emails, but only if you're really worth it.

Like Steve, apparently. 

*

It feels like several hours before Skye gets her laptop back, but it's probably closer to forty-six minutes or so.

Still. It might as well be an eternity.

Especially since there's apparently an email waiting from Simmons.

She stares at the subject line for a while. Then the time stamp.

 _ **I owe you.**_

Sent seventeen minutes ago.

Definitely a long enough time to not seem desperate -- for payment, or whatever else -- if she responds. 

The body of the email is even less specific. 

Just: 

_Your van tomorrow?_

(Being vague is smart, if you're a totally paranoid crazy person. The government's obviously spying on plenty of people, but they probably don't care about high school students fudging their transcripts. But hey, _maybe_.)

Skye writes back, _Cool._

Just that.

Hits send and pulls on her headphones.

She spends the rest of the night alternating between coding an algorithm for evaluating a given teacher's grades for in class participation distributed across race, gender, and socio-economic lines and her favorite pastime of collecting the ISPs of men's rights activists by phishing for hits on Twitter. 

It's hilariously easy, actually. Just include red flags like #feminazi or #sjw along with links disguised as a rallying cry for like-minded individuals. A child could do it. (The malware that slinks onto their computer once they've clicked is the only moderate challenge.)

It's all small time for any real hacktivist with bigger goals, but Skye has to operate in moderation. For now.

The Clarksons occasionally act as though they should really be grateful that they even bother to pay for broadband for their foster kids at all, and the connection is pretty shit sometimes. She's been forced to work within her limits until she has the financial autonomy to expand.

Or until she solves the power problem in her van and can start leeching off of homes and businesses nearby who don't properly secure their wifi.

That's where Simmons and her not-boyfriend come in.

* 

Passing the hours until the scheduled meeting time should be easy enough in theory -- since they both have class and everything -- but paying attention in pointless high school lessons like _here's an extreme nationalist overview of a pretty fascist history_ can be next to impossible, and also mind numbingly painful, especially with the school monitoring the internet traffic.

It seems like they put way more effort into making sure students don't search for porn on campus than they do locking down their supposedly secure files. 

(Effort, but it's still not impossible. There's a decent data signal, even with all the electrical interference brought on by the various engineering classes scattered across school grounds, and Skye's worked out the password for roughly five mobile hot spots provided by her fellow students. Pay enough attention to people's fashion choices and accessories and you start to notice patterns like favorite bands or celebrity crushes. There are only so many ways to spell your unending admiration for the undead.)

*

It's only twenty-four minutes after school let out -- Skye's barely had time to settle in with her laptop and a bag of wrapped chocolate candy (less mess on the keyboard than chips) -- when Simmons knocks on the van door. Seriously, she _knocks_.

Maybe Skye needs to hang around with good kids more often. They're so polite. 

She slides the door open, grin already in place and room enough on this bean bag for two, but Simmons still looks pretty uncomfortable sinking down onto it, hands gripping her own knees extra tight, like that'll somehow help with balance. 

Or maybe she's still just nervous about all this rule breaking she's been participating in, her voice a little stilted and high when she says, "Do you always come out here alone?"

"Straight to the point, huh?" 

Maybe that's another thing Skye likes about her. It's probably something to do with that analytical perspective Simmons seems to have, but she's more direct than most people. It's refreshing and Skye can't help but think it makes her even more trustworthy. 

Not easy to be fooled by someone who is so transparent with their motives, especially when roughly eighty percent of what drives them appears to be academic. 

"I've got friends," Skye says lightly. "I mean, if that's your question."

Simmons immediately looks startled at the realization of her own implication. "Oh, dear! No, I'm sorry, that was rude." 

"It's fine." 

The hands gripping at Simmons' jeans are almost dragging across the denim now. Does she ever unclench? 

Probably not. 

"But… regarding your payment--"

"Yeah," Skye cuts in quickly. "About that. I'd really rather your friend who isn't your boyfriend pay me back."

"What? No!" Simmons is startled enough she's almost stammering. "No, not at all, Fitz isn't even supposed to _know_ I did him this favor, if he found out--"

"So don't tell him."

A lot of the looks that Simmons gives Skye feel like thinly veiled skepticism. The kind of person who thinks you sound absolutely moronic, but is too polite to say so. "And how exactly am I supposed to convince him to _pay you_ when--"

"Not with money."

"-- and you know it's _rude_ to constantly inter-- _oh_ , not money." Simmons blinks several times, as though reorienting her brain around the concept. "What then?"

"Well, since you brought it up, I'm not always here alone…" She kicks the bean bag lightly and Simmons looks unnerved by even the slight wobbling. Skye has to work hard not to smirk. "But I am here _a lot_."

"So payment has to do with your van?"

"My shenanivan."

"I'm… not going to call it that." 

"Give it time."

It's brief, but for just a moment Skye is certain an amused grin passes across Simmons' face. "What do you need?"

"A power source." To plug in the laptop so she can hang out in the field for prolonged stretches of time without having to take breaks to recharge at Starbucks. Also it might be nice to support a security feed of the surrounding field. 

Not that there's a lot of concern of retribution or government intervention against a petty hacker in the middle of nowhere, but it's smart to establish good habits early. One day she's going to get out of here and make an impact, both socially and globally. 

Really change people's lives for the better. 

But baby steps first. 

"I think Fitz can do that, yes."

"You _think_? Didn't I just help a genius get into MIT, or was I wasting my time?" Skye's grinning, though, and she can't help but add, "But 7.26 GPA, huh?"

Usually, she wouldn't admit to uncovering these kind of details aloud, but it's hard to resist reveling a little in the rare instances that she gets to talk with someone as openly as she is with Simmons.

Plus the scandalized horror on her face is worth it. "Skye, that file is _private_."

"You mean like your buddy's private file I totally altered for you?"

"Well… yes, but--" 

"How is that even _possible_ , by the way, I thought you smart kids were good with math. Whatever happened to just a 4.0?" 

"… they had to create an advanced anatomy track for me."

Okay, that gets her attention since it definitely wasn't in the file. "Wait, are you the _only person_ in your science class right now, Simmons?"

"Well, technically it's only _one_ of my classes and--"

"Jesus," Skye breathes out, half in awe, but she catches the immediate cringe that follows from Simmons. "Sorry, are you religious? Shit. I mean--"

"No, it's _fine_ ," Simmons says, looking just pale enough to make it clear that nothing seems very fine right now. "But what about the file?"

"I didn't touch it, don't worry. You're still completely guilt free."

"No, but…"

Oh, and this is it. The moment of truth for every good kid, when they weigh their morals against the benefits of simply _knowing_.

The struggle is written clear across her face. "Well, what… what did it say? Was there something there _to_ touch?" 

It hadn't actually occurred to her until precisely this moment, but this is too perfect an opportunity for Skye to pass up. Time for her most innocent disinterest. "Oh, probably nothing." She shrugs and focuses on not looking up from her keyboard. "I doubt they even read those things."

The bean bag rustles softly as Simmons moves forward. "But what would there be to read if they did?"

"Just some stuff." Skye shrugs. "But who cares what one teacher thinks, right?" 

Judging by the look on her face, though: Simmons cares. 

She cares a lot.

* 

A note left in Jemma Simmons' otherwise impeccable permanent record, presumably from some asshole teacher, says: _She lacks proper socialization and classroom decorum._

"What does that even mean?"

"That one of your teachers does not like you."

Simmons looks so horrified that for a moment Skye wonders if this is the first time she's ever had to consider the possible injustice of an authority figure who might object to her because of factors entirely beyond her control.

It's almost quaint.

"But why on earth!"

"I don't know, do you make a habit of correcting your teachers or something?"

"Not ... often."

Okay, well now we're getting somewhere. 

"So like once a week, or…" Skye can't help but laugh at the disgruntled look on Simmons' face. She really isn't used to any of this, apparently. "Maybe this is still news to you, but the people in charge are _always_ right -- at least, according to them."

"It's academia, Skye. It isn't objective. If they're wrong, they are simply wrong."

"... is that how you explain it in class?"

A succession of extreme emotions passes quickly across Simmons' face before her expression simply crumples. "Oh… dear."

"Yeah."

"Oh, this could be bad. Do you think it's likely to be bad?" She shakes her head. "No, what am I saying? Of course it is."

Shit, the kid is having a full on melt down, breathing faster and worrying her bottom lip in this way that makes Skye forget for a moment that this is all pretty stupid. 

"No, hey, this is fixable. It's easy."

Simmons has sunk down another inch in the bean bag. "... do you really think?"

"I definitely know." Without thinking, Skye's hand is off the keyboard and resting on Simmons' knee -- which tenses, briefly, but she doesn't pull away. "I can delete it too. No extra charge or whatever."

Eventually, reluctantly, Simmons nods, and Skye removes her hand.

"Okay, cool."

*

But apparently it's not. It's not cool. 

Because roughly forty-two minutes later, Simmons is still pacing outside Skye's van, talking aloud -- to herself or Skye, it's sort of unclear -- and occasionally kicking at the taller blades of grass. "But it isn't fair, is it, to just dismiss an entire academic career because one student might not be as well socialized as another. I mean, certainly, that's statistically common amongst competitive students. They can hardly expect us to excel in _every_ area and still--"

"But I'll _delete_ it," Skye says for what feels like the fifth time, pretty sure there's a distinct whine creeping into her voice. "So what's the problem?"

"Well if they put it there once, who's to say they don't still feel that way? That they might not write something similar again, or perhaps there are _other_ teachers who feel the same way about me, or--" She gasps. She actually seriously gasps at the thought that a teacher might not adore her. "What's to say that I won't make this same impression if I were to make a campus visit or when speaking with new professors, or--"

"I'm kind of unclear on what the problem here is, Simmons. Just like… don't be a dick to your teachers. It's cool."

But Simmons is basically still glaring at her. "Skye."

"It's… not cool? I'm confused about what it is." But suddenly Simmons is back in _really_ close and almost back on the bean bag, but Skye had sort of shifted to the edge of it and now they are _really_ close and she _is not blinking_ , so it's all very intense for a discussion about a dumb academic transcript that probably nobody will ever read. "Okay, um-- could you maybe just back up-- a little--"

"Skye, I have an idea."

But does she have to have it _so close_ to Skye's face? Apparently. "Mmhm, yeah? What kind of idea?"

"You're going to teach me to make a better impression." 

Which makes zero sense considering Skye is one of those people who all the parents warn their kids to stay away from -- and like _visibly_ so -- and Jemma Simmons would probably be student body president if she wasn't too busy discovering new molecules or whatever it is that she does in that newly built lab her friend burnt down. "Uhh?"

"Yes, it's perfect," Simmons says with a grin, positively beaming, and at least now she's settled back onto her heels, not taking up as much of Skye's oxygen. "You'll teach me to become a better liar."

Oh.

Okay, well that's less weird and a lot closer to the kind of slightly insulting compliment Skye would have expected. 

* 

Skye's not actually sure how to teach anyone to lie since a lot of it's instinctual, so mostly she just starts hanging around with Simmons more regularly, hoping some of it will rub off via osmosis. 

Luckily she hasn't asked for some kind of chart or schedule (yet), and apparently they're making progress. 

"Today when Fitz asked what I was doing after school," Simmons is saying, almost breathless with excitement; "I told him that I would be studying, which, though I am after all improving a skill set under your tutelage, was still not _entirely_ truthful."

Baby steps, but still. Progress. 

"Way to go, Sims, soon you'll be lying to your parents about all the rules you're breaking."

"That is still _not_ my name, but thank you all the same. I think."

Skye grins and sips her latte, since coffee is apparently a thing they do now. It wasn't even Skye's suggestion this time. "You're welcome all the same, and you know pretending not to find something annoying is a _form_ of lying. You could work on that."

But Simmons scrunches up her face in that kind of perturbed but admittedly cute way she has a habit of using a lot with Skye. "No, that's far too deceptive. I just… want to be able to disguise my dislike in brief but casual interactions or to pretend I'm not overly annoyed when someone says something foolish, or-- Because it's honestly not someone else's _fault_ if they haven't received the same education or--"

She does this a lot. Goes off into random tangents laced with apologies, and Skye finds herself having to actively focus to keep up. She's used to other people who tell her _she_ talks too much, or moving quickly from one stack of data online to another, never settling. It's kind of nice having someone around who is so verbal that it's a challenge. Someone so sincere and kind of sincerely desperate to be liked -- or at least understood -- that she wraps her thoughts up tight with so many extra words. It makes Skye think of data clusters.

"It's fine, I get it," Skye cuts in, regretting her own impulse to interrupt, but sometimes it feels like Simmons might wear herself out if nobody stops her. "You have some kind of moral code you're going to apply. That's fine. It's good, even. I'd hate to think I was creating a Frankenstein's monster."

"Frankenstein was actually the--" Simmons begins with the tone of someone who has felt obliged to correct this mistake many times before, but stops abruptly. "Oh."

"Yeah, I know."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to suggest…" But she leaves it simply at that, like perhaps the apologetic smile and the way her hand briefly touches Skye's wrist might be enough to communicate all that sincerity she usually stuffs into words. 

Data clusters and weirdly raw nerve endings.

Skye gulps down more of her latte and thinks that maybe there should be a schedule. Maybe they need something closer to order to keep someone like Jemma Simmons in the right headspace.

Maybe a little more structure might be what's best for both of them under these circumstances, she thinks, and now with her hand holding the drink close to her mouth it's nowhere near the table or Simmons' apparently eager touch.

Distance along with a light and friendly grin that suggests nothing happened, just now. It's all okay, it's cool.

And if Jemma notices otherwise, she doesn't show it. 

But maybe (just maybe) she's simply taking the lessons to heart faster than Skye had originally realized.


	5. Chapter 5

*

This is absolutely the last time Fitz lets Simmons _volunteer_ him to build some abstract and ill-defined device for a total stranger who is apparently Jemma's new dearest friend that she hasn't even bothered to properly introduce.

It's frustrating.

And Simmons is _not_ a good person to have convey engineering requests to begin with. They always become convoluted by her strange organic preferences and proclivities for detouring into unnecessary data. (Not that Fitz isn't capable of the occasional side-trip himself, but usually with an end point in mind. Sometimes Simmons can carry on and he hasn't any idea what point she's trying to make! Not that he'd let on. She might develop some kind of superiority complex, and then where would they be?) 

The point, anyway, is that this will be both the first and last time his services are volunteered without his consent. It's really just the least Simmons could do to ask first, even just to phrase it as a request. 

He doesn't think that's asking for much! Just simply could she _ask_ for him to modify the battery in this total stranger's van that she has, for some unknown reason, left parked in the weeds of this field out in the middle of nowhere.

Nothing suspicious or unsavory about that. It makes _perfect_ since that she and Jemma are such fast friends.

No, not really, it doesn't. They haven't got anything in common, not even a shared interest in science. Fitz knows for _certain_ since he tried quizzing Skye on some of the simple stuff during their walk out into the middle of bloody nowhere, and the vast majority of her responses were, "Oh, why don't you tell me?" 

Look, it's fine that she doesn't know advanced engineering. Most people Fitz interacts with obviously don't and even Jemma isn't as advanced at the advanced as he is, so to speak, but this Skye person -- what sort of drug induced euphoria leads to a child being named something like _that_ anyway -- she doesn't even seem to understand the most basic biology.

Not to suggest that biology is the easier science, but well. 

Just consider the facts. 

Namely that there are so many things left unexplained in biology (and chemistry) that you can fudge your way through the especially difficult questions with lots of hand waving and a sort of vague, _"Oh, who's to say really, what a mystery this world is,"_ and that's almost considered acceptable. 

Solving a problem in engineering, however, is much more straight forward. Either the device works, or it does not. Simple and yet _incredibly not_ , and just worth considering really. Yes, of course Simmons has the higher GPA, but there is also a much more expansive BioChem track available at this school -- particularly since they seem so eager to accommodate her -- and isn't that a certain form of bias when you really think about it? It is, isn't it.

Fitz has actually been working rather tirelessly to try to bring about change in that area, and he has made great strides. Too bad really they won't take effect until after he's gone.

It would have been nice to deliver the Valedictorian speech, is all. But he's quite sure Simmons will do a fine job. (Even if he might have done better, since his jokes go over much better, as a rule.)

*

There isn't any good reason for Simmons to be coming along with them unless it's to needle him or, perhaps, to pass him tools when necessary. 

But even though she's apparently clueless, Skye can probably still understand elementary concepts like "screwdriver" or, worse comes to worse, "the long one with the black grip."

So there isn't really any point to her presence, unless she's being possessive of her new friendship, and it's really no wonder! Fitz can be quite charming, once he puts his mind to it.

Not that he'd care to. No matter how many times Simmons tries to insist otherwise -- which she does do, almost endlessly at this moment in particular -- he and Skye don't have a lot in common.

"Oh, Skye," she's saying now, in fact, while he tries to focus on making careful and precise adjustments to the van's engine that require _total concentration_. "You should show Fitz some of the modifications you've made to your computer; I'm sure he'll be interested."

No, he will _not_ be interested in some high school hacker's idea of improvements. Oh, wow, you installed ram all on your own. You changed out the battery. Very impressive.

But he doesn't say that. He just keeps turning the screws with the quiet sort of focus he _hopes_ might set an example.

Apparently not, however.

Maybe Skye isn't the sort to take subtle hints. 

"Um, sure," she says. "Maybe when his head isn't in the hood of my van."

"Not really yours, though, is it?" Oh no, there went Fitz's mouth before he could stop it, and he is _not_ setting a good standard for being quiet after all. "I mean-- the van isn't technically yours, and--" He pops his head up to meet both their skeptical gazes. As if he doesn't have a point! "So _technically_ I'm doing the repairs for … someone else entirely. They might come back any day now to claim the van, and then this will be for nothing."

As compared to now, when it still already feels like it's for no bloody reason at all, but apparently Simmons insists anyway.

He blinks at them, and they blink back. "Don't you think maybe it's a waste of time?"

"Not really, no." Skye stares at him, completely deadpan.

He could almost kill Simmons for that encouraging smile she keeps shooting his way, and is that a _thumbs up_? 

"… right."

He'll really have to talk this over with her later. 

When they are alone.

More specifically: _without Skye present_.

*

"Fitz, maybe you can show Skye some of the tools you've developed. I'm sure she'll find them quite interesting." 

For some reason he still hasn't worked out yet, Simmons is doing that thing where she emphasizes her every word as though it has an exclamation at the end of it. Each and every word. Nearly every syllable. 

It's usually reserved for when she's lying -- which she can't do a proper job of at all -- but he's certain this much is true, at least. He _has_ developed quite a few tools, and they're all very interesting. 

Though perhaps the lie is that Skye would think so, and if that's the case what's to be gained by pretending? It doesn't actually make any sense, unless--

"Oh my god," he accidentally says aloud, and both women turn their heads to look at him. He averts his eyes -- quickly, but still very _casually_ \-- and tries especially not to be caught looking too long at Skye, so as to keep Jemma from getting any strange ideas that her horrible plan is working.

The nerve of her! Trying to force him to _hook up_ with someone like Skye. It's pretty clear, Fitz thinks, that he has no need for a girlfriend at present. Not with college fast approaching and all that it implies, and even if he did _want_ a girlfriend he would be perfectly capable of getting one on his own, thank you very much, he doesn't need his best friend playing match maker out of some strange sense of pity.

_She's probably a virgin too, after all_. There's nothing strange about it. They're both still quite young and virile and in the prime of their youth, but with plenty more years of vigor and heightened hormones left ahead of them to make waiting a viable option.

He simply hasn't had the interest, which Simmons would know if she paid attention to actual organic humans and not just her test tubes and those dead animals she dissects as some kind of disgusting hobby. Probably derived from the same god complex that leads to _trying to force your best mate into a relationship with someone you barely know_ , but at least this would explain her sudden fascination with Skye.

It's actually a bit flattering, when you think of it like that. All it's seemed like Jemma could think about the past few days is Skye this and Skye that, but to think it was all for him. Genuinely flattering and rather _kind_ too. She's such a sweetheart, Jemma Simmons, really. He's lucky to have her friendship.

At the time, it had felt a bit annoying. Not exactly that Simmons had made a new friend, that's all well and good, but that the two had become _so_ close almost immediately and somehow found no time to overlap or introduce her to him. As if he's not an important part of Jemma's life! 

But apparently, this was all a part of the greater plan. 

Elegant, really. 

He'll have to offer her his compliments -- along with regretfully declining the offer, of course -- once they finish up here. 

"Sorry," he smiles almost anxiously, though it's half a ruse. He's much more calm now, and a far better liar than Simmons. "I just thought of a good joke about particle acceleration." 

As he predicted, Skye's eyes immediately glaze and she looks back down at her keyboard. 

But Simmons is still eager, nearly at the edge of her seat. "Well then, tell it, Fitz." 

"… _later_ , Jemma." 

He's hissing, or at least he's _practically_ hissing, emphasizing each word with a careful shift of his eyebrows to indicate Skye is sitting _right there_ , is she blind or something, and Jemma just looks… confused. 

Maybe she is actually a better actor than he's ever realized. 

* 

"Wow," Skye says in a hushed voice, so easily impressed by a rudimentary gas powered engine to operate a simple security system with an extra outlet for charging her laptop. "This is seriously cool, Leo…" 

He wants to correct her. He hardly knows her and even Simmons doesn't call him Leo as often as she probably ought to, but--

"Yes, Fitz is quite brilliant, isn't he?" 

But there's Jemma. Cutting him off with another one of those _smiles_. "Thank you, Simmons. You are … so kind."

Only when she _wants_ something, apparently.

* 

His plan is not to bring it up until they're alone in his room instead of out and about in this neutral territory. He prefers a strategic advantage if he's going to tell Jemma off for her _presumptuous_ behavior, but it's hard when she keeps bringing the topic up. 

"Don't you think you and Skye have an awful lot in common?" He only grunts, but she apparently doesn't take the hint, continuing; "You two really would make terrific friends."

"I've got friends. _You_ are my friend, Jemma."

The look she gives him is startled. Perhaps his tone was a bit sharp -- a _bit_ \-- but her surprise is unnecessary and excessive, as is the hesitation when she responds with a very slow, "Yes." 

Either she is a _brilliant_ actor after all -- which she'd never let on before, not once, in all this time -- or she thinks so little of his intelligence that she imagines he somehow hasn't put two and two together. It's _math_ , Jemma, he's worked it out.

But fine. Two can play this game and in fact two and two can play and they will get four, because it's simple arithmetic, any idiot knows that. "I'm just not sure what you'd want with any more friends, not when we're already applying to college, and if I wanted any more friends, I can bloody well get my own."

"I--"

"You know what, I think I'll walk home."

Clutching his backpack to his chest -- weighed down by tools and clanking as he moves -- he starts walking down the road at an impressive clip, if he does say so himself. 

Trailing behind, several feet back, Simmons follows. He knows because he can hear the thumping of the stack of books in her own bag as she walks. 

(Note to self: perhaps he ought to invent some corrective form of apparatus that compensates for the potential to create poor posture by lugging a weighted bag on your back for four years of high school.) 

Eventually, he slows. 

Not by a large amount, but just enough to allow Simmons to catch up if she only modifies her own easy gait by approximately forty-seven centimeters per step. 

Which she does, bumping him with her elbow. 

He's enough of a gentleman to pretend not to notice.

*

The next day at school, Skye _corners_ him in the cafeteria and the sound he makes is too dignified to be classified as a yelp but some people who aren't inclined toward semantic accuracy might make that mistake. He could understand it, at least.

It was more of a yell of surprise and moderate pleasure. (Only moderate.) 

"Skye! Yes, hello." 

He's noticed that she often looks at him and Simmons both like they're small children she's only amusing herself with. The sort of close-mouthed smile people use when they don't want you to know they're laughing _at_ instead of with you. "Sup, machine man. Where's your friend?"

"Which one do you mean?" Fitz says, feeling unconvincing. "I have more than one, you know."

Skye's expression says that she does not know, nor does she believe him. (She's not entirely wrong.) "Uh, the one I talk to, I mean. Simmons. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"So… she's not here."

" _Obviously_ ," he says again, extra scathing. 

"And hasn't been here recently either…" Skye talks with her hands in a way that's so elaborate, it's a bit like her fingers are dancing. "Right?"

"Exactly."

Before he can react, Skye abruptly hits him once in the shoulder with the flat of her hand. (Violence and aggression of the sort he'd expect from a delinquent who associates with the dropouts and presumed drug users that occupy the parking lot after school.) "Cool, thanks, glad we had this talk."

It wasn't a talk so much as a baseline for facts, but fine.

Apparently Skye's standards are low when it comes to socializing, which would explain her minor infatuation with someone like Simmons.

*

It could be possible -- perhaps even quite probable -- that someone like Skye is desperately in search of a nurturing friendship of the type people like he and Simmons are perfectly positioned to provide. The sort of moral center that a person inclined to gravitate toward the ends of society's acceptable behavior might find inspirational.

Seeing as they don't, for example, spend the majority of their time in suspicious vans at the edge of the woods.

(Only making occasionally questionable choices that result in unfortunate outcomes which, at the end of the day, were scientifically beneficial. It isn't often you set a thing on fire for the sake of greater knowledge, but it does happen.)

*

The point is that if this friendship is going to be a _thing_ now, the least Fitz can to is attempt to be supportive.

"I think you and Skye ought to spend more time together," he says in what he thinks sounds like a very casual whisper. Calm and right to the point, but presented in a way that might prevent suspicion and awkward conversation. "She seems like a nice girl."

"She… I'm sorry, what?"

The look on Simmons' face is dubiously blank.

And to think some people would actually suggest that she's the quicker one between them. "I think that _you_ and _Skye_ ought to continue spending time together, Simmons, is that so hard to imagine?"

For a moment it looks as though she might argue -- to say that it _is_ difficult to imagine, or some other such nonsense -- but to Fitz's immense relief, she simply smiles instead.

It relaxes him a little, when she smiles like that, and then suddenly her _hand_ is on top of his. That doesn't relax him, not exactly, but it is nice in its own way. His eyes flick down and then back up again, because eye contact is important, and both his eyes are locked on Jemma's when she says, "Thank you, Fitz."

"Don't mention it." 

He's not sure if his smile is as casual as he'd like it to be, as it ought to be, but if it's too tight around the edges, she doesn't notice or comment. Her own smile is still steady and sure, and her hand doesn't leave for some time.

Well, and there you have it.

Quite an exceptional good deed for the day, if he does say so himself. (Which, apparently, he would have to.)


	6. Chapter 6

*

The first time Jemma is questioned by anyone about her relationship with Skye Bennet, it's rather unexpected, particularly since (rather uncharacteristically) she has hardly questioned it at all herself. 

(Perhaps that in and of itself is worthy of consideration. She normally can't go more than fifteen minutes without contemplating the motivations and variables within any given set of circumstances. The seemingly limitless power of possibility has always fascinated her.) 

But she is caught off-guard when Fitz approaches her at the end of the school day and asks -- no, demands -- to know _"exactly what is going on."_

The answer is almost automatic. 

"She's been helping me, Fitz."

"Like a friend, I suppose," he says, almost bristling. "Like your very dear new friend who you haven't at all bothered to introduce."

And so she had. Introduced them, that is. 

It hadn't gone over well. 

*

It's not that she can't understand the confusion. Skye isn't really the sort of person she generally associates with. 

To be perfectly frank, it isn't often Jemma associates with anyone other than Fitz when outside of school. She has friends in class, certainly, and she attends various social gatherings, it's not as though she's a total recluse, but so many of the especially social aspects of high school have eluded her entirely simply due to a lack of interest. 

It's hard to pretend to care about the goings on of other teenagers when she could be working to better understand the entirety of the universe at an atomic level. The everyday banality of teenage life just seems so insignificant in comparison. Not that she's insensitive! 

She and Fitz get along smashingly, for example, and that's probably at least in part because they have always had a deep and almost instinctive understanding of each other. 

That's a kind of sensitivity, certainly.

There is never any question of where either's priorities might lie, or if he even understands the points being made when she begins to explain a new theorem. Of course he does. Though their particular areas of interest and expertise might diverge somewhat, there is a commonality between them that pervades most of their interactions and daily conversations. 

It has always been the two of them as a unit. Perhaps not against the world exactly, but certainly in one another's corner.

But now she has Skye as well.

Because though she may have a dubious reputation -- and obviously some of her choices indicate elements of a questionable moral character at her core -- thus far Skye has been nothing but kind and helpful to Jemma. When she thinks about it, being entirely objective, they are friends. 

Of course they're friends.

* 

It seems only natural to continue socializing, as that's what friends do. You could even say that the time they spend "studying" together is much closer to two friends merely passing the time rather than anything else, and as far as they've discussed thus far Skye isn't even asking for compensation. Her only interest is in selflessly improving Jemma's capacity for deceit. (It's quite generous and kind really, so long as you don't analyze the specific details of what it is they're attempting to accomplish together.)

They meet up in the mornings on most days, exchanging idle chatter on the way to class. Jemma has noticed that Skye's attendance has improved, or she at least makes a show of heading toward class when they part ways. It's the thought that counts.

It's nice to have a pattern, something predictable, but Jemma finds that it might be even better to have a bit of spontaneity. Like those afternoons where Skye might suddenly drag her into the supply closet for a whispered conversation before shoving her back out again just as the bell rings, and suddenly Jemma is left to come up with an excuse when she stumbles in late to class. ( _She'd left last night's assignment in her locker,_ and Ms. Hand doesn't even look twice. She's getting good at this. Or, at least good _enough_. Serviceable.) 

And the changes are nice, in their own way.

Otherwise long, familiar days punctuated by trips to the library and talks over coffee.

The van isn't the only place they spend their time, but it makes the most distinctive impression. Skye with her legs sprawled out on the floor in the back, computer in her lap, typing faster than either of them can speak (even Jemma), and smiling at her over the monitor at the occasional interval. The musky smell of that old van, and the faint hiss of the laptop fan as it hums on. 

These are the moments she is certain she'll remember later. 

Skye often passes the time by attempting to explain the basic principles of computer science to her, as though she feels some sort of obligation to speak primarily in terms of science and technology when communicating with Jemma.

Perhaps she thinks it will put her more at ease, which is thoughtful, at least.

Skye can be quite thoughtful, really, when she isn't making an effort to be destructive or anti-social. 

(Not that she isn't obviously much more social than Jemma is herself, and she's always very friendly and quick to smile or offer a joke. Rather it's that some of Skye's inclinations and the types of behaviors she normally engages in -- even when in the company of others -- could qualify as anti-social toward the greater community as a whole.) 

Jemma wouldn't be altogether surprised if, for example, she regularly engaged in vandalism in addition to other illegal activities, however well meaning those may be.

Most things with Skye seem to start out very well meaning.

*

So Jemma tries not to scoff when Skye invites her to a Friday night party. 

This too, she's sure, is meant to be a kindness rather than an inevitably failed venture of disastrous proportions. 

"I'm sorry, what?" she stammers (genuinely stumbling over her words), but then barreling through before Skye can even respond; "No, I couldn't possibly this Friday, I am _much_ too busy."

"You're still doing that eyebrow thing."

Oh, yes. 

Of course Skye would notice the immediate telltale signs of Jemma's attempts at deception. "Well, I don't... know." She's right. Jemma absolutely does fidget her mouth and do some bizarre and unnecessary thing with her eyebrows shifting awkwardly up -- and sometimes abruptly back down -- while her brain struggles to race ahead in search of some conclusion that might somehow be wholly satisfying or convincing. "I'm--"

"Think of it this way…" 

Skye cuts her off with a hand clasped to Jemma's wrist. It's startling, sudden, and very, very firm. She realizes, dimly, that not many people other than Fitz bother to touch her. (Not even Fitz usually presumes to do so.) But Skye does it easily, like someone who considers invasiveness second nature. 

Given how they met, this should come as no surprise.

Jemma feels herself swallow (thickly) and does her best to ignore the way Skye's thumb braces against the delicate bones in her wrist. Settles into the curve of the carpus. "… yes?"

Index finger drumming over a metacarpal.

"Great opportunity to practice lying to mom and dad."

*

When Jemma asked to learn to improve her attempts at deception, she had never really intended to use it on her parents. 

That might be hard to believe, given the usual behavioral patterns of most teenagers, but Jemma Simmons has never been like most other teenagers, and she gets along just fine with both her mum and dad. They're very supportive in all her endeavors and seldom intervene when she wants to spend time with Fitz, even very late at night.

Though to be fair, that's only happened once in all the time they've known each other.

Fitz is the sort of person to turn in early, that's all. She's sure if it _had_ come up, her parents wouldn't have cared.

It stands to reason, she ought to use Fitz for the lie itself, but what if he found out? He was already acting strangely enough around Skye, she doesn't want to complicate matters further by implicating him in a lie involving the two of them.

So she goes with the very next best thing.

*

"Hamlet?" Her father looks up from the Discovery channel documentary about the mating habits of whales, and Jemma has to force herself not to become distracted by the narration. Eye contact is very important when making your lie convincing. "I didn't realize you had even tried out for a play…"

"Well. I have," Jemma says, very careful not to do anything strange with either of her eyebrows. 

Though perhaps she is overdoing it a bit to the other extreme, her face remaining almost unnaturally still, at least judging by her father's curious expression.

She rushes to rectify, adding, "And it's _very_ good."

"We have read it, dear." The amused look he sends her mother is the sort of conspiratorial and jovial expression her parents normally reserve for commenting on the potential sex life of their neighbors -- or total lack thereof -- and it's difficult to discern what it means exactly in terms of her lie.

It's almost as though they don't believe her, and yet they still don't _care_ , which is odd. Highly illogical. Jemma is, after all, a teenager, and therefor likely to experiment and make numerous mistakes that might be detrimental to her future health and happiness.

They really _ought_ to be more concerned, but she supposes it would be ungrateful (and potentially bizarre) to object when her father turns back to his program with nothing more than a dismissive, "Do try to be back by midnight, alright?"

*

The very least they could do is give her a lecture on safety concerns, or ask who would be driving her home.

But then she might have to actually _introduce_ her parents to Skye, and that could be potentially disastrous, at least judging by what happened with Fitz.

Still. Probably better than Jemma Simmons in attendance at a party on Friday night.

Probably.

*

(She does her best not to calculate the odds of failure while she waits at the end of the block. Concentrates on the colors of the sunset and the depletion of the ozone instead. It's actually more comforting.)

*

When she had agreed to let Skye drive her to the evening's festivities, Jemma hadn't actually considered what Skye would be driving. 

Obviously not the van. That was never a possibility. 

But if she had spent any time at all trying to guess, a beat up flatbed truck -- in chipped and faded pale blue -- would have been pretty far off the mark.

"You do _not_ come to school in this." The engine doesn't exactly roar or purr. It's more of a prolonged, agonizing groan. "I'm certain I would have noticed… this."

Skye laughs. If she's offended, it doesn't show. "It's not mine."

For just a brief moment, Jemma considers confirming that the vehicle was obtained with its owner's knowledge, but she realizes that might be taken the wrong way and she certainly doesn't want to offend her ride home for the evening before the night's even begun. "It's… lovely."

Her back is stiff as she climbs up and in, leaning somewhat precariously forward out of instinct, to keep the back of her shirt from touching the seat and any traces of _anything_ that might have been left behind on it.

The look Skye shoots her is quick and amused before her eyes are back on the road again. "Better." She drums her fingers on the wheel. "At least you didn't do the eyebrow thing."

*

It's only once they're halfway there that Jemma realizes she never bothered to ask where the party is even being held. Apparently, it's just at one young man's house.

"He does this a lot, actually," Skye says, sounding distracted as they draw closer. There are suddenly very few parking spots left anywhere along the curb, and she idles for a moment, considering. "Wonder what sort of damage I'd do pulling up onto the lawn."

"… is that a hypothetical, or--"

Skye turns her head with that half-smug but entirely amused eyebrow raise she often sends Jemma's way. It seems that she uses it most often when Jemma is trying to decide whether or not to even broach a topic at all. Usually science. (Always science.) "Well, it _was_."

She hesitates, considering. It isn't often really that Skye strikes her as being overtly or rudely _bored_ when Jemma is speaking -- not like it is with most people -- but occasionally, she seems to have trouble keeping up or fully comprehending, and then frustration starts to gather at the corner of her eyes. Those early signs of a frown.

Fitz never seems to pick up on them in time, but Jemma is used to seeing that very same expression directed at her many, many times. 

It's seldom as impatient with Skye, though. If anything, she always seems more annoyed with herself for not knowing. A mild but quiet displeasure she can't quite put her finger on. Maybe all this time spent studying deception has made Jemma more perceptive.

In tune with Skye's mercurial moods.

Ready with the right answers she wants to hear instead of an in-depth analysis. "It'll be fine for just tonight. Go ahead and pull up over there." 

* 

It's shockingly suburban, an impression only amplified by the number of (mostly male) teenage bodies already sprawled in the grass -- it is only nine o'clock, have they no restraint -- and for already the third time this evening Jemma remembers why she usually avoids gatherings such as this. 

"Skye," she _begins_ to say, but suddenly Skye's hand is on her wrist and she is being dragged past the pool -- oh, well at least there's a pool -- and up the back porch, so most of the name ends up swallowed. 

What makes it out of her mouth instead is more of a startled jolting sound that probably would have alarmed Skye considerably if the music (if you can call it that) coming from the house wasn't loud enough to vibrate through the walls and into the center of their chests, drowning out almost everything else.

Still, the sound must have registered somewhat since Skye gives her a mildly curious -- and far too amused, honestly -- look before releasing her hand. "What's up, buttercup?"

"Well, I--" 

"Skye!" 

There on the other side of the screen door is a man ( _boy_ , really) who well might be the same age as them, or perhaps has been held back just enough years to naturally give him that rugged and unkept sort of quality that must work on some girls -- like Skye, for example, who almost _lights up_ suddenly. He's smiling with a red plastic cup in one hand -- yes, Jemma _has_ partaken in alcohol once or twice, she recognizes it, of course -- that he offers to Skye, who takes a sip without any hesitation. 

"You know, you shouldn't drink anything you haven't mixed yourself," Jemma supplies -- rather helpfully, she thinks.

But Skye is still smiling, and directing a great deal of that smile in the boy's direction. "It's okay, I do know him. Unfortunately."

"You could say that," the boy with a terrible five o'clock shadow says through a laugh. (Really, it's awful. It's growing in patchy and utterly sparse in some places, which might obviously indicate a genetic predisposition toward hair loss that could become problematic as he gets older.) "Hi, I'm Miles."

"Jemma."

"You can just call her Simmons," Skye adds hastily, and Jemma isn't certain why she doesn't bother to correct her.

Perhaps because she doesn't necessarily _want_ Miles to call her Jemma. Apparently Skye doesn't either.

"Is this your house?" 

"Normally my dad owns it," Miles says, and she notices that he is apparently the sort of person who punctuates a great many of his statements with bursts of laughter. "But this weekend, let's say I'm renting it out to the party gods." 

He has a pair of aviators hooked to his tank top -- it is _night_ time, though perhaps he is already too inebriated to notice, still chuckling at his own terrible joke -- with his arm hooked over Skye's shoulder. 

Perhaps Jemma is over estimating her own progress during the time spent with Skye thus far, but she could swear that the other girl's smile is insincere, the edges much too sharp as she settles into the crook of his arm. This is a lie. 

A very good one, but a lie all the same.

*

Skye and Miles wander off -- either to mingle or potentially make out in one of the back rooms, it's difficult to say -- and Jemma is left feeling a bit like an idiot. 

Two separate boys offer her a cup, but she takes her own advice and pours the drink herself, fingers creating a strange friction against the plastic from clenching much too hard. She takes a few deep, long drinks, but finds it doesn't relax her quite as she had hoped. 

So she drinks a few more.

The taste of alcohol, particularly beer, is always a little disappointing, as the brewing process itself is simply fascinating. Jemma wishes she were in a position to legally develop the sort of refined pallet that would come to fully appreciate all the time and effort that goes into producing fine hops, but she's never felt comfortable enough illegally drinking to take the time to really taste the fully evolved chemistry behind the processes of creation.

She is fairly certain, however, that whatever is in this particular keg would hardly qualify on the list of finest brewed beers. Even still, there's no harm in examining the quality, such as it is, very closely and carefully, albeit with a perfectly normal level of interest. 

For science.

*

The patio smells heavily of whatever scented candle someone -- almost certainly Miles' mother, she's sure -- left out on a polished red platter, its dripped white wax creating the impression of a bullseye in the negative space. But the fire is out for now, so the faint, almost acidic burning smell must be coming from somewhere else in the back yard.

It makes Jemma think of bug spray and summers spent going on camping trips with her Girl Scout troop before she gradually realized that the other girls were much more interested in spending time together socializing than they were in categorization of plant life or studying animal predatory patterns. (Jemma had collected a very specific and focused but still rather impressive array of merit badges before quitting.) That was the last time she really remembers being a part of a group or some major event that wasn't centered around her long-standing (and productive) association with Fitz.

Perhaps she really ought to consider genuinely participating in a school play.

Maybe they really _would_ do Hamlet this year.

"Simmons, right?" 

There is very suddenly a tall, ostensibly athletic young man standing right at her shoulder, and Skye's lessons are coming in quite handy as Jemma attempts to ignore his ridiculous slurring and the slight sway of his hips as he stands there. "Yes?" she says, hoping to sound pleasant enough that even her smile might be somewhat convincing. 

"That's you, right?"

"… yes."

Perhaps _too_ convincing. She certainly doesn't want to be overly charitable so as to encourage such poor communication skills and an absolute waste of time.

Still, this sort of deception is (most likely) the entire purpose of the evening.

Behind the boy, a small crowd has gathered and, judging by the quick looks exchanged between them, these must be his friends. Extrapolating further, their snickers mingled with light elbowing of one another suggests that whatever is happening now may not be in Jemma's best interest.

She braces herself, shoulders straight. "Sorry, did you need… something?"

More snickering. "Yeah." He laughs loudly, showing lots of teeth, and Jemma is immediately reminded of Miles. (Skye is _still_ missing.) "I'm just--" His shoulders shake with repressed giggles and one of his friends is snorting so hard into his drink that he almost spills it. "You know where you _are_ , don't you?"

Oh, so this is some juvenile ritual to demonstrate dominance and superiority. It might almost be droll if she didn't have to keep stepping back to avoid him spilling his beer on her every time he starts to laugh. "Better than you do, I think..."

*

If Skye asks later if Jemma enjoyed her evening, saying "yes" will have to be her most convincing lie ever.

*

There's a guy vomiting (loudly) in a bush close by , and the smell travels remarkably fast. Maybe that's something to do with the rate at which the finer particles are dissolving in the air, density or something, or--

But perhaps it'd be better to contemplate such things when her own stomach doesn't feel close to revolting.

*

Skye is back, at least, though somewhat distracted still. Her hip is pressed close to Jemma's on the sofa, and her hand has found its way to Jemma's knee. (Skye is always so easily and almost eagerly evasive. No, wait-- that's-- it's invasive. But also... yes.) 

She might have had too much to drink too fast. Her stomach clenches when Miles moves to sit beside them on the sofa, his mouth close to Skye's ear. 

"So, are the party gods satisfied?" she asks, feeling his weight shifting.

"Yeah, but pretty soon it'll be time to sacrifice the virgin," Miles says, clapping his hands together and still laughing at all his own jokes like a manic hyena. "Simmons, are you up for it?" 

Jemma can feel herself blushing before she even fully registers what was said, an almost instinctive chemical response that must be occurring much faster than any of her other reaction times, dulled as they are by alcohol. 

But Skye recoils quickly. She moves so fast, in fact, that Jemma is genuinely startled. 

Because suddenly, Skye is standing, they both are, but though she's actually shorter than Miles it doesn't much matter when she's shoving him back down onto the sofa with the heel of her hand, hissing in his face, and then her voice is raising and --

And everything is happening so quickly, Jemma can't keep up. She's honestly not certain that she would have been able to even without the changes the alcohol is doing to her system, but it obviously doesn't help.

"So fuck off," she's positive she hears Skye say, and also, surprisingly, "C'mon, Jemma." 

"… oh." 

It almost takes a moment to fully realize that _she_ is the person Skye's referring to, as the brief dust up in front of her was something so out of the norm of Jemma's day-to-day experience that it almost felt like watching a kind of narrative detached from this reality. Like a soap opera unfolding right in the middle of this dimly lit living room. 

Once it does register, however, that _she_ is the person Skye is looking at expectantly, Jemma is of course quick to follow, keeping close to the other woman's heels and mumbling brief apologies to anyone they might bump into along the way. 

Her equilibrium isn't quite what it usually is, and so the possibility of stumbling or ramming into someone seems very real.

It's only natural, really, that she would reach out to take Skye's hand. Equally natural, of course, that it had been trailing between them, as if Skye had been deliberately reaching back.

*

Neither of them is sober enough to drive far. Skye tries to insist at first, but Jemma isn't interested in dying as the perfect end to an all together awkward night, so they only drive around the block until they're out of sight of Miles and his terrible home, and then they climb into the back of the truck and wait for the effects of the alcohol to pass. 

She considers asking Skye how much she's had exactly and calculating it against her weight to work out a rough estimate for when it might be safe to drive the rest of the way.

But she feels the weight of Skye's elbow against her side, close to her hip, and feels the clip of her jaw when the other girl turns to stare off down the road, and suddenly Jemma just doesn't feel like talking. She'd rather sit here.

She would rather, for once, simply exist.

*

Miles lives out further from the rest of the city than Jemma usually bothers to travel, and she can't help but notice how much prettier the stars are without the distraction of so many other lights close to the horizon. 

She begins identifying them silently in her head, and wonders if Skye would care to join in.

In the silence punctuated only by the sounds of their quiet breathing, she wonders if Skye is the sort of person who looks up to the pinpoints of light far off in the distance and thinks about their meaning. About the expansiveness of time and how small our space in the universe is, but how vast as well. The light from a star, simply concentrated energy, illuminates across enormous amounts of both time and space. 

It isn't hard to imagine that a person could do the same. Cast light across an enormous distance.

"I'm sorry about that."

The sound of Skye's voice is so abrupt that it should be startling in the stillness, but instead it's almost soothing. Perhaps it's the proximity, with her shoulder pressed to Jemma's, so that their voices settle in low and she can feel the exact vibrations within Skye's throat and chest. "Sorry? About--"

"About Miles." 

Jemma realizes that she must be blushing again. She can feel the heat suddenly rising in her cheeks. "Oh, yes." 

"He's an asshole sometimes even when he's sober." Skye's weight shifts against her, just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Jemma thinks about the numerous muscles involved in even so simple a movement and the deliberate (if subconscious) action that must be taken to move when the truck is entirely stationary. "But that's no excuse."

Skye is still talking, and Jemma's having trouble concentrating.

She's usually so good at multi-tasking. "Excuse for…"

"He shouldn't have talked to you like that." When Skye shrugs, Jemma feels it along her entire right side. If she were to turn her head now, their jaws might graze against each other. Which.

But it feels rude not to look at Skye at all. 

Jemma doesn't want to seem insensitive, and so she takes her hand. "I appreciate you coming to my defense, of course, but I'm fine. Really."

For just a moment, she feels Skye start to edge away. The fingers slip away from hers and begin to drift across her palm, but then they merely reposition. The grip tightens and she feels a squeeze. "I know you are, but I'm still sorry."

"Well." Jemma swallows. There's a prickling sensation on the back of her neck that she assumes must be from the cold night air. "Apology accepted."


End file.
